
Book.___J^ .effi 
GopightN /_ 

COPKRrGHT DEPOSIT. 



3Jn tfje Heaut^ of t|)e lilies 



SOME BRIEF ESSAYS 



BY 



LEIGH MITCHELL HODGES 

Author of "The Great Optimist" 




NEW YORK 
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
23 EAST TWENTIETH STREET 



V .V 



LIBRARY erf CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

APR I 1904 

Copyright &«try 
*f^-- / -/ 1 O *■ 
CLASS <*- XXc No. 

COPY 8 



Copyright, 1904, by 
Dodgk Publishing Company 



TO MY WIFE 



fntiejc 





Page 


" Resurgam n . 


7 


Life's Friendship 


*5 


Fra Ugo Bassi 


21 


Niagara .... 


19 


The Trees .... 


3S 


Of What is Cast Aside 


45 


Summer .... 


53 


The Peace of God 


61 


The Worth of Service 


. 69 


The Joy of Death 


75 


The Art of Living . 


81 


To A Face . . . 


89 


Music . 


95 


" Crossing the Bar " . 


103 


Ambition .... 


in 



3n tlje Heautp of tlje lilies 



4* 



Utatttgam" 



NO flower that blooms but sings of life 
immortal. From where the timid 
violet lifts its faint sweet song to 
where the pure tall lilies waft heaven- 
ward their incensed hymns of praise, the 
chorus that bespeaks eternity encircles life 
that is, and gilds it with the divine glow 
of Life that is to be. "They toil not, 
neither do they spin." Their little day is 
swiftly spent, and yet they bear to men's 
hearts the greatest message of the God 
on high. This morn beneath cerulean 
skies there comes a burst of bloom, all 
veined and broidered in some skill more 
7 



%vt t^e 'Beauty of ti&e lilies 

vast than aught we know. A second sun 
shall see the petals droop, as if weary, 
and with the evening shadows a flower is 
dead. It was so small a thing — one out 
of countless millions. It shall be little 
missed and soon forgot. But spite of 
this, it is not dead! Some other sun shall 
rise upon the fragrant beauty born of this 
sweet dying. Some flowers of even fairer 
hue shall make to bloom the memory of 
this little life. In loveliness more rare 
the flower that was shall be again, and 
through the years, down to the very meet- 
ing-place of end and endlessness, one 
flower shall gladden all the garden 

Wherefore, if He who is Justice thus 

wills that not a flower shall come to death, 

save as to the gateway of a new life, think 

you not He has for us, to whom is given 

8 



gjn t^e 'Beauty of t^e Hflfeis 

dominion over all the flowers of the field, 
some gift at least as great? In the clear 
uplifted eye of the daisy, in the steadfast 
smile of the buttercup, in the warm caress 
of the rose, in the beauty of the lilies, we 
have His undying pledge. Whatever 
may be felt or thought within, whatever 
may come to our eyes or ears from with- 
out, we turn to the flowers and their great 
brothers, the trees, and in all the varying 
of their fair fresh voices we hear one 
strain, that comes to our souls like the 
soft borne echoes of a vesper bell across 
the meadow lands at dusk — Resurgam. 

I shall rise again ! 

It is the strain telling out to all man- 
kind the one day that has changed the 
whole course of human existence. Three 
and thirty years arc gone since the angels 
9 



3In fl&e TBtauty of C&e JLttiejs 

sang in joy at His birth. Three and thirty 
years He has lived as man and loved as 
God. Many a dark and trying hour has 
cast its shadow therein. At last He stands 
on Friday, the accursed of men — the men 
He healed and comforted and did good 
unto. iWith His last breath He forgives 
them and commends Himself to your God 
and mine — for we are all of the same 
great clan. And He gives His life that 
He may add to our lives the limitless es- 
tates of Immortality. 

Down through the years between that 
dawning of eternity and our own day, an 
army unnumbered has marched to the 
measures of human needs. On its myriad 
shoulders have rested the burdens of the 
ages. On its ocean of faces have been re- 
flected all the sorrow and all the strength 

10 



gjn t^e TBeautv of t^e lilies 

of the human heart — rich in both. And a 
host of its legions have been helped to for- 
get the roughness of the road, through the 
remembrance of that changing of death 
into life. For there comes into our years 
no trial, no sorrow, no loss, no hungering 
which cannot be seen aright and some- 
what understood in the white light of 
Easter. 

Life has its Gethsemanes, wherein 
worn spirits pray and wrestle with lack 
of strength, and faltering faith and dwin- 
dling hope. Life has its trials before the 
Pilates of a thousand wrong ideas and 
customs. Life has its bleeding roads to 
Calvary, and life has its Calvarys. But 
through all the darkness the finger of 
Hope still points a way, and the light of 
Faith still makes it clear, and when the 

XI 



gin t^e QBeaut? of t^e Mlitu 

end seems to have come, and the burden 
to have grown beyond us — then life has 
its EastersI For the road to Calvary is 
the path to peace. 

It is not an easy lesson to learn, albeit 
no lesson is so constantly set before us in 
such endless variety of example. It seems 
the supreme mission of nature to teach 
this. None who has ever given thought 
to a flower, or loved and tended a vine or 
tree, can justly doubt that the preach- 
ment of the woods, the fields and the hill- 
sides is resurrection. 

Across the quiet fields, where lately 
swayed the blossoms in the summer wind, 
we walk in winter and amid a dull stretch 
of lifeless brown. The skeletons of trees 
stand like sentinels, guarding some En- 
campment of Death. The song of birds 
12 



gin tyz istmxty of tlje Klfejs 

is no more, the merry chattering of the 
stream is chilled into silence. One night 
the sky-mother leans down and silently 
spreads a great white sheet over all. So 
far as the eye can see, the end has come 
with this lowering of the grave-cloth. 

But one morning the sun returns in 
some semblance to his former glory. A 
bird strays in from the South. A limp 
and decaying leaf is lifted, that a pink 
arbutus may smile at the blue sky above. 
There is a strange gladness in all the air. 
The world is awaking! 

This is the Easter of nature, coming 
year after year to testify the truth of the 
Easter of man. This is the great help 
God gives us to understand the sublimest 
of mysteries. It was the forerunner of 
the morning of eternal life, which is now 
13 



3ln t^e TStmty of t^e liliejs 

become the ceaseless echo of that high 
holy day. And as it is with the things of 
nature, so is it with what concerns man in 
this prelude to immortality, and in the 
beauty of the lilies we perceive immor- 
tality and sing with joy, 

"Resurgam!" 



14 



life's jfrtentJSfjtp 

ONE question constantly given utter- 
ance, both in thought and word, is : 
What should be man's attitude 
toward life; in what spirit should he ac- 
cept the events of youth and maturity and 
old age, and as what sort of visitors re- 
ceive the years that are his? There is but 
one answer, and though not the one al- 
ways given, it is surely the wisest and 
truest of all possible. Man should hold 
life his friend. 

However little he had to do with com- 
ing into this world, and however little 
his choice was consulted as to his primary 
surroundings, he finds as the years roll on 
that, if he is willing to use as best he can 
all they give him, these years are not un- 
15 



gjn t^e TStauty of t^e JLiltejs 

kind — are even friendly and even love. 
The lisping child, who laughs with de- 
light at the breaking of the sunlight 
through the clouds, who claps its little 
hands in joy over the beauty of a flower, 
who is lost in wonder at the softly falling 
snow, is an exemplar of the attitude which 
each of us should take toward life and 
what it brings. The years of childhood 
are naturally the years without care, but 
if maturity brings new responsibilites and 
burdens, it likewise opens the way to a 
broader and deeper understanding of the 
mysteries of man and nature, thus 
strengthening the bond which binds man 
to the God of nature. The joys of child- 
hood, however blithe, fade away as shad- 
ows in the light of the joys of later years, 
and as the disappointments of childhood 
16 



3jn ti&e TStmxty of ti&e Mlit» 

are balanced by its happiness, so the 
greater disappointments of maturer years 
are only in keeping with the larger hap- 
piness they bring. The one principle 
which is most evident in all of life, from 
beginning to end, is compensation, and 
if as a foe it takes from us some things 
we feel should not have been taken, it 
seldom fails as a friend to give us more 
than we had a right even to expect. 

To look upon life as a friend may per- 
haps be the solution of much that burdens 
you and distresses. Your human friend is, 
after all, frail and faulty as other men 
and women, and one failure on his or 
her part might open to your eyes a greater 
share of shortcomings than you had yet 
known. Your human friend, however, 
has blinded you to these lacks by some 
17 



Sin t^e ^Beauty of t^e lilies 

keen sympathy that touches your heart 
deeply, and lets your eyes see more clearly 
the better side. Despite this, there are 
times when your friend disappoints you; 
when you look for certain aid and find it 
not; when you feel that friend stands thus 
and so, and learn differently. It is a shal- 
low friendship that shall be extinguished 
by these gusts. And so it is a shallow re- 
lation toward life that allows the sorrows 
and pain and disappointments which are 
inevitable, to overshadow the privileges 
and blessings bestowed by each succeed- 
ing year. Human as we are, we must not 
expect from life a treatment which will 
appeal to us as other than faulty in some 
measure. Only one perfect could find 
no flaw in all that is, and none of us being 
perfect, none should expect to find flaw- 

18 



gin t^e TBeaut? of tyt lilies 

less these times and circumstances which 
surround us, and which in very truth are 
largely of our own making. 

This is the great reason. While life 
and we should be friends, it would seem 
unfair to our very selves to thus desert one 
for whose cares we are so largely respon- 
sible. It is only in the beginning that we 
have to take life as it is, and then fortu- 
nately there are those whose chief joy 
seems to be the tempering of the wind 
toward us. When in the course of years 
the bugle sounds the call of battle, and 
shoulder to shoulder with the multitude 
we face the sterner problems of existence, 
we are armed with minds grown strong, 
hearts deepened and more full of feeling; 
spirits fortified by faith, and hands en- 
dowed with skill. And thus as times grow 
19 



9In ti&e OBeautt of t^e lilies* 

more complex and new issues present 
themselves for our working out, we be- 
come the better able to solve them. Life 
is never anything but a friend, yet life, 
like every friend, shall be faithful to us 
only so long as we are faithful to it. 



20 



jfra WI$q 93asst 

HP HERE dwelt in Rome some few de- 
•1 cades ago a servant of the Lord 
named Ugo Bassi — Fra Ugo Bassi, 
brother of an holy order — who abounded 
in high thoughts and good works, and 
who, when not occupied with his special 
duties, went on Sundays to some of the 
hospitals and preached to the sick. He 
was a man of deep feeling and fine sensi- 
bilities, whose love for liberty and its 
spread was second only to his faith in God 
and his desire to help his fellow men. 
Through that desire he became in time 
the good angel of the afflicted in Rome, 
and one was counted fortunate whose cot 
was in the corridor where Ugo Bassi 
preached. It chanced that one one Sun- 

21 



gjn t^e TStauty of t^e JUlies 

day, when his great voice rang out a clear 
message of hope to the sick, an American 
woman heard him and made note of what 
he said, and later put it nobly and sweetly 
into verse, as it comes to us to this very 
day — a tiny book, whose merit and beauty 
is in no wise comparable with its size. It 
is rife with words of comfort for those 
who suffer and it beams throughout with 
a soothing light which many a time, I 
know, has made pain easier to bear and 
suffering less troublous to the heart and 
body. One portion of it runs thus : 



" Measure thy life by loss instead of gain ; 

5JC ?j? *J» ?j> ?J> ?J5 5J* 

But when the sharp strokes flesh and heart run through, 

For thee and not another ; only known 

In all the universe, through sense of thine 

Not caught by eye or ear, nor felt by touch, 

Nor apprehended by the spirit's sight, 

But only by the hidden, tortured nerves, 

22 



31n tlje beauty of t^e lilies 

In all their incommunicable pain — 
God speaks Himself to us, as mothers speak 
With fond, familiar touches, close and dear ; 
He gives His angels charge of those who sleep, 
But He Himself watches with those who wake." 

At first thought it might seem to us 
that the Divine Hand could find some 
gentler way of making its presence known 
among men, but first thoughts are some- 
times false thoughts, and when we realize, 
as we must, that we ourselves are in one 
way or another largely responsible for 
our bodily ills, the aspect is changed. And 
is it not a great and comforting thought 
that He watches by us in those dark hours 
when the very spirit seems stretched on 
the rack of torture, and the physical being 
loses semblance to its former self? And 
do we often suffer wholly in vain? Do 
we not in the end, when the veil of pain 
23 



gin t^e TBeaut? of t^e lilies 

has been lifted, and once again we see 
through calm eyes, come to the realiza- 
tion that there was something which need- 
ed refining, something which needed soft- 
ening, something which shone a little too 
brightly, something which did not glow 
warmly enough? It is only through in- 
tensest heat that virgin gold can be got 
and there is much likeness between 
man and the rough lump of ore which 
is dug from out the bowels of the 
the earth. In each one of us is some mea- 
sure of gold. It may be, and often is, hid- 
den beneath a rough covering. Only by 
the test of fire is the worth of the human 
being defined. It is easy enough to be a 
saint when the sea is smooth and the sails 
round out with a stiff south wind, but the 
true saint is he who falters not when the 
24 



3Jn t^e TStmxty of t^e Liltejs 

waves are mountains and the wind has 
bred a hurricane and the skies darken so 
that man cannot tell the differece between 
sea and cloud. That which is built for 
great use must be given a severer test than 
it is ever expected to undergo in the 
course of its existence. The battleship 
on its trial trip is urged forward as if all 
the navies of the world were chasing it, 
and the cylinder which is to be the store- 
house of motion, and thereby bring into 
existence speed, is placed at first under 
abnormal pressure. Thus are things in- 
animate prepared for their parts. It 
seems reasonable, therefore, that man, 
whose part is the highest, should prove 
his power and ability, especially as to 
overcoming obstacles, before the fullness 
of that power and the vastness of that 
25 



gin t^e QBeattt? of t^e Lttiejs 

ability is placed in his keeping. Pain is 
the supreme test. He who dares to face 
an army without tremor of lip or quiver 
of hand, will pale before one stroke of 
intense pain. It is indeed the supreme 
test and often the supreme softener. 

I know it is more easy to speak thus 
when the glow of health is suffused 
throughout the being than to hold to it 
when the ruddy cheek has paled and, the 
canopy of suffering being let down, veils 
all the world in an ugly dimness. Even 
then, however, it is not impossible to see 
some bright ray in the distant prospect. 
Perhaps if we kept before us more con- 
stantly the true measure of life, as ex- 
pressed in that first line, we might find 
less to despair of in our bodily afflictions. 
Perhaps if we could only be made to 
26 



gjn ttje TBeaut? of t^e Ltlfejs 

know that in most cases loss means gain — 
the loss of low, the gain of higher things 
— we might become more willing to look 
at it thus. Perhaps, indeed, if we allowed 
the thought to echo more often through 
our minds, that only through pain and 
suffering can our lives in any wise be 
likened to His who gave us all this herit- 
age, we might be better armed to meet 
the common conqueror. Pain is the great 
teacher of patience. Patience is one of 
the divinest qualities that man can possess 
— so divine that it serves him as well in 
things temporal as in things spiritual, fit- 
ting in with every phase of existence as 
if made for that and that alone. So if 
God's hand weigh heavily, let thine be 
pressed but the tighter; if God's touch 
seem to burn the brow, lift thine eyes 
27 



%xt ti&e TStmxty of t^e Lilies 

only the higher. Remember it is the fire 
— the fire that shall some day have 
burned away — and that the greater the 
heat the greater the purity of the gold in 
the residue! 



28 



JEtagara 

SOME days impress themselves upon 
us as a great light upon the eye; 
whichever way we look or turn we 
still see a ball of green, or blue, or 
purple, which seemingly will not fade. 
One of these days in my life, and very 
probably in yours, was that upon which I 
stood on the brink of the high precipice 
over which the resistless water of Nia- 
gara pour themselves in endless foaming. 
Within a step of me the wide stream of 
green and gray rolled smoothly over the 
crescent edge, as if rushing into the arms 
of a lover, and bubbling and bursting into 
white clouds, became a part of the pure 
and thunderous chaos below. Lost of all 
semblance to its former self and changed 
29 



g|n t^e TStmxty of t^e Uttiejs 

in the twinkling of an eye to vast moun- 
tains of impenetrable and snowy mist; 
shattered to infinitesimal bits on the 
sword-pointed crags beneath, it was 
spread by the wind like a great veil be- 
tween earth and sky, and became the can- 
vas on which was painted a rainbow of 
perfect form and color. Each of the 
primal colors stood out as if they had 
come fresh from the palette of God, and 
the unbroken arch seemed the handle of a 
big basket filled with a burst of virgin 
hue. You who have seen it know what it 
is better than can be told in words. Niag- 
ara is one of nature's inexpressibles. 
Its beauty, its terror, its glory, its swift- 
ness, its absolute power and its perfect 
simplicity, combine to astound the tongue 
and set at naught all the boasted powers 
30 



3ln t^e QBeaut? of tyz Lilies 

of the imagination. Standing before it, 
one has somewhat the feeling of being in 
God's presence, and the thoughtful being 
is brought as near to that Presence there 
as any place on earth, perhaps. And 
Niagara has more than beauty and power 
and awe. Those rushing waters, those 
ceaseless thunders are the bearers of a 
mighty lesson. 

Like as they, whirling and swirling, are 
borne on to that falling-off place, uncon- 
scious of the fate that lies before them, 
unable to turn back when at last they 
come near to the edge, are many of us 
carried along in the crowds of life. We 
are, however, conscious perhaps of the 
dangers which we glide toward, yet too 
weak and helpless to set our feet against 
the stones and thus stay off the hour of 
31 



%n t^e QBeaut? of ti&e iLtttejs 

peril. Like as those waters, we fall in 
countless cohorts over the edge of some 
perilous rock, and the thundering echoes 
of pain and remorse smite all the air. 
Like as those waters, we are cast against 
jagged points far below and torn and 
hurt, but the resemblance does not stop 
here. There must arise the cloud of mist 
— a mist of suffering in our own instance, 
which ofttimes shuts out Heaven more 
absolutely than that cloud at Niagara 
ever can. And when that cloud arises 
there must be the rainbow, for the sun, 
like the waters, is ever at hand in some 
spot. And the smiling of its golden face 
on the cloud of suffering gives us the 
fairest and most beautiful of the signs of 
Heaven. 
And thus, perhaps, we think as wc 

3 2 



3In t^e TStmty of t^e Lttiejs 

stand enchanted by that tragedy of water 
how human it all is, how like men and 
life. There is the calm, smooth journey 
for those many miles, marred only now 
and then by some rock easily passed, and 
in the end that leap into a chasm of ap- 
parent despair, whence arises the cloud 
of weeping and pain and sorrow. But 
with all of this, ere the thunderous throes 
are lost, the sun shines out somewhere 
and there is the rainbow of hope, and 
the waters of Niagara and the waters of 
life emerge in troublous company from 
that vast fall. They still have the Rapids 
to run, and these are the racking mem- 
ories of sorrows and losses, and the cruel- 
seeming days that have been. But the 
waters of Niagara do not stop there, nor 
do the waters of life. Growing more and 
33 



3!n t^e TStauty of t^e lilies 

more calm, swinging on through that in- 
describably beautiful gorge, they come at 
length to the heaven-set village, where 
they begin to spread and form the peace- 
ful lake. You have stood on those 
heights, perhaps, with that little church 
asleep in its grove of tress and those beau- 
tiful shores stretching out as if they met 
the shores of Paradise, and looked far 
over the fields and fences below to the 
widening stretch of silver that lay like 
the personification of peace in the after- 
noon sun. The rush and the roar is all 
behind. There is nothing now but a pic- 
ture of some earthly paradise, the fore- 
runner of one that is not of earth, and all 
that is left to the memory is the rainbow. 
And all that stretches out before the spirit 
is the sweet dream of its eternal promise. 
34 



THE greatest blessing of nature is a 
tree. It may. seem not only diffi- 
cult but somewhat unwise to thus 
single out any one of the many blessings of 
this vast kingdom wherein we wander 
and call it the best or the greatest, but 
the greatest blessing of nature is a tree. 
Stand on the deck of some ship, with 
nothing around but water and sky, and 
still one has food for high thoughts, 
and still one is conscious of gifts far 
beyond human meriting. Scale the dizzy 
heights of the Alps and come at length to 
a place whence all that can be seen is 
cloud and snow and sky, and the same is 
true of that place. Go down into the 
man-made caverns of earth, and in the 
35 



dim, smoky glare of the lamps gaze at 
the formation of the walls around and 
feel the strange, pleasant coolness of the 
lower air, and almost a new world of 
wonder and beauty is open to the eyes 
and the soul of which they are windows. 
But go out into a treeless country where 
your only companions are sand and sky, 
and though you have the sky and its ever- 
present inspiration, and though you have 
somewhat the same vastness that sur- 
rounded you on the sea, and though there 
is still something of the strangeness of the 
lifeless world below, you feel the need 
of something more, and that is a tree! 

Nothing is more beautiful and nothing 

of such infinite use. When we speak of 

use as pertaining to trees, the limit of our 

thought is perhaps houses, moving struc- 

36 



31n tlje TBeautt of tyt lilfejs 

tures of all sorts and kinds, heat which 
generates the power of earth and gives us 
light, warmth, force, and provides for 
us each of the necessities and nine-tenths 
of the luxuries of living. Vast as is this 
limit, the scope of the tree's power is even 
more vast, and one morning we are as- 
tounded to read in some government re- 
port that the chief reason for the drying 
up of certain rivers is the destruction of 
forests; or to be made acquainted with 
the fact that one of the most vital sources 
of world-fear lies in the gradual de- 
crease of the number of trees. Thus are 
we awakened to a consciousness of their 
high place in nature and brought to a 
realization of their vast usefulness, not 
only to man, but to all creatures and all 
parts of the wide world of vegetation. 
37 



9In t^e beauty of t^e XLilfejs 

What a world of learning and senti- 
ment is wrapped up in the bark of that 
old oak which stretches its green arms 
over the roadway and guards the flowers 
by the wayside and shelters man from the 
wrath of the sky! How much of differ- 
ent aspect is interwoven with those tender 
branches of the yearling which shall yet 
provide shade and beauty, and even after 
death leap into life again in some warm- 
ing flame which, in turn, will live once 
more in force or fancy. As I look from 
my window across the green-carpeted 
valleys and up the tree-hidden hillsides, 
I feel that the proper attitude in the pres- 
ence of the trees is a low bending, as to 
some divine benefactors sent to earth to 
administer God's goodness. They are in- 
deed, as says the poet, the columns mold- 
38 



gjn t^e QBeaxit? of t^e itlfejs 



ed of God which support the roof of the 
world and mark its chambers. I contem- 
plate the seas of green that stretch away 
to the high peaks of dim blue in the dis- 
tance, fading as they do from the vivid 
and fresh coloring of the nearby trees 
into the dimmer tones, and at length shad- 
ing gently into the hazy color of the 
mountains, and I feel as if I were look- 
ing out over the fields of God, the richest 
of all, from which the harvest may be 
taken at any time and which will yield a 
thousand-fold of beauty and of use. I 
stretch myself beneath one of those old 
pioneers of the forest, and my sense of 
rest and companionship is beyond the 
power of language to tell. I am in com- 
munion with the highest expression of di- 
vinity made manifest in the world of na- 
39 



gin tyt ^Beauty of t^e Lilies 

ture. It seems that I suddenly become a 
part of all that has been and all that is 
to come, the domain of man has given 
place to the dominion of the Higher 
Power, and as I have intercourse with 
this emissary from the court of Heaven, 
I hold converse with the brother of all 
the ages, and draw from him a wisdom 
greater than man can give. 

In the plentitude of trees we are 
brought close to the fact that nature is 
not only generous, but wise in her gener- 
osity. We have many trees because there 
is need of many trees. I have known per- 
sons who thought we had more than we 
needed, and who carried their thoughts 
into action by reducing the visible num- 
ber. I look upon such as the desecrators 
of the best that is in nature, and I count 
40 



3Jn tlje beauty of t^e Hiliejs 

them but defilers of the temple not built 
with hands. To use all we have need of 
is nature's evident wish, but to take one 
we do not need or do not intend to use is 
wasting God's gift in a way that cannot, 
I am sure, be forgiven. 

The trees are full of teachings, and 
these reveal to us many things we need. 
Chief among them is the exemplifying of 
the patience with which poverty should 
be borne. Now poverty is not the burden 
we count it. More often is it a bless- 
ing than a burden. See how often it 
comes into the life of the tree. When the 
November days mark the last stage in 
the short season of the leaves, and one by 
one those shapes that went to make up the 
ideal dress fall off and whirl as in a mad 
dance of death to the grave of the ground, 
41 



gin fyt TBeawty of t^e Mlitfi 

the tree neither gasps nor despairs. In 
patience it waits through the winter. 
Robbed of all that made it shapely and 
beautiful, and left a forlorn skeleton 
standing up alone against gray and dull 
skies, the silent creature bears in patience, 
and in hope, mark you, its naked desola- 
tion. The day is not far distant when the 
balm of spring will call forth the young 
buds, and they in turn be warmed into 
the young leaves, and then ere long the 
tree is once again itself and all that which 
was lost is found, and even in greater 
measure of beauty. Such a life is not dis- 
similar to that of him who goes through 
the winter of desolation patiently and 
hopefully. Some spring is bound to 
sound its note of cheer, to send its thrill 
of warmth once again through the veins. 
42 



gjtt tyz ^Beauty of tyt iUIiejs 

Ah! yes, that spring may not be here, but 
remember this life is only a little garden 
clustering around the doorstep of the 
Eternal Home. Whether spring begin 
ere the spirit cross that threshhold, or 
whether it come with the crossing, there 
is the same warmth in its first glow and 
the summer is as bright one way as an- 
other, and as warm and as lasting. 



43 



m WW fe Cast gstoe 

ONCE on a time I came upon the story 
of a youth apprenticed to a famous 
maker of windows in stained glass, 
over the sea in England. Now this young 
boy — a likely enough lad at his adopted 
calling — was much favored of his master, 
and together, and with much skill, they 
wrought out the great and small squares 
and circles and triangles of many-colored 
glass, through which God's sunlight was 
let into dim, old cathedrals and ancient 
abbeys — for the tale was somewhat of the 
long ago — and men made exceeding much 
of their labors, and the excellence of their 
art was borne far and wide in the name, 
of course, of the master. And it was thus 
for many years, the lad meantime grow- 
45 



31n tyt 'Beaut? of t^e iLiliejs 

ing more tall in stature and more skilled 
and tasteful in his work. 

Now, as they fitted and leaded the 
glass from day to day, picturing to-day 
some pale, sweet-eyed Madonna, to-mor- 
row some valiant, faithful soldier of the 
Great King, full many a piece of choice 
hue was cast aside because of its unfitness 
in shape or color for the space wherein it 
was to have been set. All of these were 
thrown carelessly into a ragged pile in 
one corner of the workroom, and there 
they lay from year to year like broken 
bits of a rainbow, beautiful but of no use. 
As he looked at this ever-increasing 
mount of color one day, a gleam of the 
True Light came into the eyes of the ap- 
prentice, and that night, when his master 
was adream, the youth laid him out a 
46 



gin t^e TStauty of t^e Lilies 

plan from which to make a window with 
these discarded pieces. When day smiled 
in the east he hid his work, but when 
night came again he went to it, and thus 
for a long season he wrought, taking but 
little sleep in the hours of darkness, and 
by the shaded light of candles making 
much progress in his work. And all the 
while his master knew nothing of what he 
was doing. 

At length came the morning when the 
window was finished, and lo! it was of 
fairer mold than any which had ever 
come from out the place, and the light 
shining through it made it seem as if 
some of the glory of the spirit land be- 
yond were breaking over that little space 
of earth. When he saw it thus, the youth 
was afraid of what his master might say, 
47 



gin ti&e TStauty tit t^e JLiliejs 

for he knew him to be a man vain-glori- 
ous and proud, so he made away with the 
window to a neighboring town and gave 
it to the Bishop of the great cathedral 
there. And it was set above the high 
altar, and there, if the story be true, it is 
to this day. But when, as he was bound 
to, the master at length heard of all this, 
and had seen the window, he became 
angry to desperation, and in the hour 
of rage set upon his helper and killed 
him. And albeit this tale hath not a 
glad ending, it is of sweet import to the 
heart that will listen. 

In this vastest of cathedrals — this world 
of the living — you and I are in a way win- 
dows, through which the light of a better 
day must needs shine, that the long, dark 
naves and transepts and the endless aisles 
48 



9!n t^e TStauty of t^e Hilfeg 

may be robbed of their darkness and made 
bright with joy and good cheer. And 
stranger still, we make of ourselves such 
windows as we are. 

Some of us have at hand all that is 
needed to fit and finish glorious windows, 
full fair of design and color, and in the 
eyes of men and in the sight of the Maker 
of men, these are acceptable. But some 
others, indeed a very great many, have 
small supply of the glass and the lead and 
the other wherewithal to put together 
their windows, and they look at their own 
lacks and bewail that they also cannot 
beautify the temple. For however weak 
the hands may be, the heart is nearly al- 
ways willing, yes, anxious to do its part 
in the sum total of this lower existence. 

It is to these sorrowing ones, made 
49 



9In tyt beauty of t^e Lflfejs 

miserable through what they think of as 
their lacks, that this quaint tale should 
mean something. Over in every corner of 
the world are piles of what has been cast 
aside by the artist workers at the great 
tables. In truth there is no place where 
we cannot find bits of broken glass reject- 
ed by the makers of other windows, and 
there is no one of us who, if he will, can- 
not take of these rejected pieces and, as 
the lad of old, cast a window which shall 
glorify the temple in perhaps even greater 
measure than those made by him who 
seems more favored. In the end some 
such window as this might be the chiefest 
of all therein. At least we can try, and 
I tell you that he who gathers the broken 
bits of each day and chooses therefrom 
what is beautiful and good, shall yet mold 
50 



gin t^e 'Beaut? of tye Lflfejs 

that greatest and most beautiful of win- 
dows ! There must be love in art to make 
it divine. It is not all to have the hand, 
the palette, the canvas, the glass, the lead, 
the solder. There must be behind this 
the soul which can be transmitted through 
lifeless things to other souls, and the win- 
dows we make for this great cathedral 
depend far more on the soul we put into 
them than on the mere materials where- 
f rom they are constructed. So it is that he 
who has all this at hand may yet have 
less of a joy than he who lacks much of 
what is needed by way of material. 



5* 



Rummer 

r T^HE days of dream draw on into the 
A the golden season of summer. The 
birds voice their matin song before 
the weary sleeper cares to waken, and 
their silvery vesper service reaches far 
into the hours that only a little while since 
bespoke earth's sleepy time. In the great 
glow of the triumphant sun, the full- 
blown roses waft their sweet-scented mes- 
sage through all the world, and every- 
where, in everything is spoken, sung and 
breathed the full splendor of life and 
bloom and ripening vine and fruitful tree. 
The fields that were lately shroud-hidden 
in snow rejoice now in green and gay 
mantles, broidered as never the hand of 
woman could trace on cloth with thread 
53 



gin tyz OBeautt of t^e littejs 

of gold. The forest that was bare and 
naked is again rich with life and shade, 
and nature no longer weeps, save in pas- 
sionate bursts of joy at her own plenty 
and her own fruitfulness. The changing 
year which leads us through its varied 
seasons brings us nearer and nearer the 
throne room of its wonderful palace. 
Like children, straying on from field to 
field and finding in each some new and 
greater beauty, we are led from glory to 
glory, from wonder to wonder, until we 
stand awed and silent in the presence of 
marvels beyond the vast limits of imagin- 
ation. Dreams are as phantoms; joys and 
hopes even seem surpassed in this won- 
derful array of flower and fruit, of rush- 
ing stream and blooming field! 
And this summer, this season of the 
54 



31tt tyt TBeautt of tyt lilies 

full spirit — how lazily and yet how 
sweetly its days glide by! How the moon 
lingers and how the green ocean seems 
to rise and fall in its ceaseless swell more 
gently than of late! I suppose if words 
could be penned in colors instead of let- 
ters, if sounds inarticulate could be 
changed to speech, and in the glow and 
richness of some lifeless thing we could 
spell the subject we know, we might from 
all this riot of hue and f ruitfulness, come 
to know in truth God's definition of 
peace. There is death in the winter, birth 
in the spring, peace in the summer day 
and resignation when the autumn winds 
blow cheerlessly. Yet it matters not how 
green and full of bloom are the fields; 
it matters not how merrily the stream 
rushes on through the forest or how 
55 



gin t^e TStauty of t^e JLiliess 

cheerily it babbles over the rocks, if 
the heart within does not beat in uni- 
son with the great chorus of song 
around. For weather that's sunny and 
flowers that are fair, and balm of any kind 
are nothing to the blind, and the loss of 
sight in the eyes is but the beginning of 
blindness. 'Tis when the eyes of the inner 
being are dimmed that one ceases to see. 
'Tis when that half-divine consciousness 
which is more than half of sight is dulled 
that the beauties of life are veiled to us. 
So long as the vision of the spirit is clear, 
there can be no inward darkness, but let 
that be clouded, and no human can see 
far into the glory around or before it. For 
we see as we feel, and if the heart be 
heavy the view is limited. Only when all 
the chords of the being are tuned to the 
56 



3in t^e beauty of t^e Jtiliejs 

true key of infinitude is the horizon of 
the spirit boundless. Only then do we 
catch some faint glimpse of what may lie 
beyond. And there are those who can 
discern, and easily, some semblance to the 
white and shimmering towers of endless 
day. And there are those whose hillside 
is lost in the hopeless contemplation of 
the ghosts of last year's mistakes and sor- 
rows. 

Along the floor of the forest, where the 
dead leaves of a year gone still lie damp 
and rotting, the serpent wends its way, 
and never lifting eye from the level of the 
ground, seeks the shade where it is deepest 
and the swamp where it is most rank. 
Above in the tree-tops a little bird sings 
out to the sky as if its throat might truly 
burst with the melody of gladness ; then 
57 



Sin t^e 'Beaut? of t^e ifliejs 

over the green meadow it flies and per- 
ches merrily in a nearby tree in an orch- 
ard. Should you stoop to the serpent and 
say to him how glad and gay is the world, 
he could not believe, because he would 
not. The glad, gay world means nothing 
to this crawling thing. Should you tell 
the bird of a world of damp and dark, 
it would sing you to scorn. It knows of 
no such place, because it will not know. 
And to themselves men and women are 
serpents or birds. They see as they will. 
One may choose to crawl through the 
depths of the forest, another may choose 
to sit on the high branch of some spread- 
ing tree, and the world is to each accord- 
ing to the place chosen wherefrom to 
view it. 

So the summer is a season of exceeding 
58 



3]n t^e 'Beaut? of tye iflfeg 

joy, not alone because of all its glow and 
fruitfulness, but because it places before 
the being so little cause for even the pos- 
sibility of worry and sorrow and regret. 
Each season has its joys and to say that 
one were less sweet than another, or one 
more to be desired than another, would be 
speaking for those who would better be 
allowed their own say. The most plenti- 
ful summer may be a season of joy or a 
period of complaint and discomfort. The 
changing year, after all, has little to do 
with it. It merely places the scenery. It 
is the heart that makes the play! 



59 



Cf)e $eace of 4£ot» 

THE peace of God which passeth all 
understanding." 
You have perhaps heard these words 
resound in gentle cadence through vault- 
ed aisles, falling upon the bowed heads of 
the people like snow-flakes of benedic- 
tion. In the noblest ritual yet composed 
of man their place is high, and among the 
noblest of God's creations it should be 
higher still. Pause a moment over their 
meaning. The peace of God — the eter- 
nal quietude of the spirit; the unending 
restfulness of that inner part of the being 
which is not bound by mortal limits. It 
is the peace of God whereby we are led 
to a safe refuge from the world's unrest; 
wither we may turn and never seek com- 
fort in vain. How many a weary soul, 

61 



%n tyt 'Beauty of fl&e lilies 

worn and tired with its struggle, has 
sought out that haven when the shadows 
fall at eventide and found there a joy 
which only they who have known can 
appreciate. How many, many thousands 
have passed and are passing to-day that 
frequent seat beside the road of life, not 
knowing or seeing, but going on to the 
end of the long way, with only sighs and 
hard-drawn prayers. One step from the 
path and they would find that which is 
more constant than the sun, more full of 
love for man than nature itself, more 
plenteous than the air — for such is the 
peace of God. 

Does it not seem worth while, even to 
the mind of practical turn, to strive some- 
what for this, despite the business and 
strenuosity of these later days? And then, 
62 



9jn ti&e 'Beaut? of t^e JLfliejs 

close following, comes the question which 
one often hears asked: "Is anything worth 
while that does not repay in some visible 
or tangible reward?" I think some things 
are. I believe that when one has striven 
as long and as earnestly for the spiritual 
and the invisible as for the material and 
tangible, the measureless worth of these 
higher things becomes as eminently visible 
as the highest rangs of mountains or the 
most vivid flash of lightning. Who can see 
love, yet who would be so foolish as to 
say it was not the strongest, most potent, 
most powerful and most general of forces. 
Who can put away peace as things of 
matter are stored up, yet who will deny 
that of all personal or national possessions 
this is, next to love, and almost in the 
same measure, the most to be desired? 
63 



3Jn t^e istmty of ti&e Lilies 

We are put in this world, I believe, for 
some purpose beyond suffering, toiling, 
tiring, sighing, weeping. These gray and 
dull things have their place in life as the 
clouds have their place in the sky and the 
mists and fogs on land and sea. The time 
was when to my mind the thought of fog 
contained no possible source of good or 
blessing. The idea of drifting on the 
broad surface of the sea, not knowing 
whither or whence, nor what rock or 
hulk or bar might suddenly sound the 
death signal, was one bereft of all hope, 
so far as I could see. But having been 
thus surrounded once, and having felt as 
I did, man's utter helplessness and God's 
absolute power, I can no longer think of 
even the fog at sea as a hopeless thing. 
The words of the Cardinal's divine hymn 
64 



3!n t^e TBeaut? of t^e Lttfeg 

have taken on a new meaning; the feeling 
that the Great Pilot is at the helm, and 
with His own hands is guiding whither 
He would the ship should go, is not bar- 
ren of comfort nor of peace. 

Few, comparatively, may climb the 
steeps of material success ; fewer gain the 
heights thereof. But to every living being 
is the possibility of peace — this peace that 
passeth all understanding. Suppose this 
day does not bring what we wished and 
prayed it should, what of that? Are there 
not to be other days, and does not each 
day bring us somewhat more than we de- 
serve perhaps, or more even than we de- 
sired? Suppose we are for a time haras- 
sed and encumbered by our own failings 
and weaknesses, what of this? Have we 
not always before us, well within our 
65 



gjn t^e 'Beaut? of t^e Liliejs 

grasp, if we will reach out for it, the hope 
of at least some semblance to the eternal 
quietude of God's peace? What if one 
single day did bring us all we had hoped 
and prayed for — left no desire unfulfil- 
led, no longing unsatisfied, no wish fruit- 
less, what would life hold for us then? 
It is in the endless succession of new de- 
sires, new hopes, new prayers and new 
needs that we realize the great ends of 
living. We take no step, however great, 
but some step higher appears before us; 
we reach no goal, it matters not how high, 
but a higher one rises in the distance, 
beckoning us on with all the allurements 
that helped us to the one already gained. 
It is all so human and withal so divine. 
It is the undeniable proof of eternity, of 
immortality. And as we go on from step 
66 



9!n t^e TStauty of t^e Hiliejs 

to step, from goal to goal, we shall find 
each day easier and brighter if we set 
apart some portion of it for the calm and 
quiet contemplation of the really high 
things, the things that are not of the hour 
or the year, or the century, but of the ever- 
lasting. The hands will be better able to 
do their work; the heart stronger in hope, 
greater in courage ; the spirit more ready 
to accept what comes, more willing to 
give what seems needed, if day by day we 
rest a little while in this arbor by the road- 
side, this vine-clad arbor wherein is the 
soft light of the "peace of God which pas- 
seth all understanding." 



67 



C|)e Woxfy of g>ertotce 

NOW it chanced not long since that 
there fell into my hands a very; 
beautiful little book, wherein was 
printed a tale of similar account, being 
the story of a certain minstrel, back in 
the days when minstrels roamed from 
place to place, ekeing out a living with 
their songs and stories. And this minstrel, 
who formed a very small human part of 
the Twelfth century, grew a-weary 
of the world, and in order that he might 
find rest and peace, joined himself to an 
holy order. Having done this, he be- 
came despondent over his lack of ability 
to do as his brethren in the giving of 
praise and labor for his shelter and keep. 
Being but a minstrel, he had never 
69 



gin tyt beauty of t^e iflfejs 

learned aught but to sing and dance and 
tumble, at which last-named art he was 
a master indeed, and so he felt greatly 
out of place among these goodly men of 
God, and bethought him what he might 
do to show his appreciation of the food 
and lodgment given him. And it came to 
pass after certain days that he discovered 
an obscure crypt in the monastery where- 
in was an altar covered with dust from 
disuse, and above it a likeness of the Lady 
Mary. Then of a sudden did an idea lay 
hold of him, and since he was better at 
tumbling than at aught else he did here, 
before the likeness of the Lady Mary 
above the altar, many of his most difficult 
feats, all in the true and humble spirit 
of adoration. Thus daily did he perform 
his devotions for many days, until at 
70 



gin t^e QBeautt of t^e Liliejs 

length one of his brothers caught sight 
of him making antics before the altar and 
took report of him to the abbot. But the 
abbot refused to take action until he him- 
self had seen the minstrel, so he betook 
himself in secret to the crypt and there 
did see the strange antics and difficult 
feats performed before the altar, with the 
likeness of the Lady Mary above. And 
when the minstrel had done with them 
all, and was resting with great drops of 
water coursing down his cheek, and half- 
exhausted leaned against the wall, the ab- 
bot himself did see a vision as of the Lady 
Mary coming down from the frame and 
ministering to the poor tired man, and 
with her were many angels doing service 
upon her. And the abbot was much im- 
pressed, and he bade the brethren that 
7i 



gin ti&e istauty of ti&e JLttf ejs 

they take no offence at the tumbling, for 
it was done in the true spirit of adoration 
and devotion, and besides it was the best 
the minstrel could do. So it was that 
when a few years had passed, and Death 
in his endless round tapped on the door 
of the minstrel's cell, the abbot and many 
a monk were there, and as the stranger, 
long since grown thin with his tumbling 
before the little altar, closed his eyes for 
the last time upon the scenes of this world, 
they all did see the vision of the Lady 
Mary, and of the many angels doing ser- 
vice upon her, and they all did see how 
she bade the angels carry the minstrel's 
soul to Heaven. And there ended the 
quaint tale. 

Yet a good tale hath* no ending, for 
when it has been of worth to one, it goeth 
72 



31n tye TStauty of t^c Uttfeg 

on to help or gladden another, even as 
this one came to me, and even as we may 
carry its meaning into our daily lives and 
gain therefrom full much of peace and 
help and comfort. For was not the min- 
strel you, perhaps, and was not the dim 
crypt this world, perchance, and do we 
not as we journey back and forth often 
feel our own inability to do as others, 
and are we not sometimes overcome by 
this lack, as it seems to exist in our sight? 
Yet have not you and I one thing which 
we can do well above all others? It mat- 
ters not what that thing be, for He to 
whom all service is due hath no need of 
one thing above another. It is the spirit 
in which we act, not the deed itself, 
that counts. And if we do that one thing 
as well as we can, think you we shall be 
73 



31n ti&e QBeautt of t^e JLiiiejs 

scorned or set at naught for our sincerity 
and our effort? 

The true beauty of service consists not 
in what we do, but in how we do it. The 
worth of service lies not in the means, 
but in the manner of expression. If only 
we would let this truth come more closely 
into our lives; if only we would ack- 
nowledge to ourselves that no matter how 
little we are capable of doing, so long as 
we do our very best, and in the fullest 
measure, never stinting, it is bound to 
be acceptable to the High Power, even 
if the lower ones do spurn and frown at 
us, there might be many a heartache 
saved. We might find hands more real 
than those which came to serve the weary 
minstrel stretched out to minster unto us. 



74 



Ci)e 3fo£ of Beat|) 

WHEN the reaper goes out into the 
field of gold in the golden days 
summer and sweeps down the 
ripened stalks, leaving behind him only 
a stretch of stubble, do we grieve for the 
grain that bows to his stroke? Do we not 
rather rejoice that there shall be an abun- 
dance of bread in the world? When the 
caressing twilight loses itself in the shad- 
ows of night, and but for some far away 
star, the heavens were lost to us, do we 
bemoan the parting day? Look we not 
rather to another hour of dawn, which 
shall bring back to us all these joys of 
light a little while lost? The fading 
flower, the falling leaf, the dying year — 
these speak to us of new and greater beau- 
ty. Their hue of sorrow is lost in the 
75 



gin t^e TStmxty of t^e Liliejs 

surety of hope. But when death enters 
where we sit, and leaving, walks with one 
we loved, how is it then? Then we are 
too blind with weeping to see the bread 
in the ghost of the fallen wheat; the 
morning hid in the shade of night; the 
new beauty born of the passing away of 
flower and leaf. Is there hope in the field 
and garden, and not in the heart of man? 
Is he who has the Master's promise of im- 
mortality to be overcome by the separa- 
tion of what is only an hour, when we 
dwell upon eternity? 

We are not yet wholly free. The slav- 
ery of the ages still casts its bonds about 
us, and the old ideas come down from 
days remote still cage us in to some ex- 
tent. We are free to believe, but we fear 
to trust too greatly. No day but what we 
76 



gin tyz QBeautv of t^e lilies 

hear the old falsehood — you cannot trust 
men. You cannot — not until you trust, 
implicitly the God of men. Then may 
your faith in humanity be as the dust scat- 
tered to the utmost ends of land by heav- 
en's four-winged force. And having 
come into this full freedom of trusting 
God, and knowing that what He decrees 
is for the good of His children, how can 
death smite us as some unconquerable 
sorrow? Indeed the face we loved is 
gone, and naught remains but a ribbon 
she wore against her white throat, or a 
book he loved and in it marked his love. 
But for all that has been taken, much is 
given that was not ours before. Now 
Heaven is not some dream of fancy, far 
away beyond the senses, beyond the flight 
of the swift-sped spirit, even. .Only a 
77 



gjn t^e 'Beaut? of t^e liliejs 

little bridge of years spans the stream 
which flows silently between the lands of 
this life and those of that Life. And do 
we doubt the shores that fringe the waters 
on the other side, when one there is with 
whom we would have spoken so long and 
dearly, who was led away almost before 
we knew him, knew her? Are they not 
now a reality, whose outlines seem hid- 
den only behind some loose hung misty 
veil, which will not be hard to pierce 
when the eyes are strong? Know we not 
that what was once our dream is now our 
assurance? Is that which thus leads us 
on among the stars so vast a wrong, so in- 
consolable a loss? 

Indeed 'tis gain — this knock which wakes the soul 
To surer sight of what the future holds ; 
To closer walks with those sweet saints who stand 
To welcome us some day. 

78 



gin t^e beauty of t^e Lilfes 

Shall we fear this? We should neither 
fear it nor long for it. It is not wise to 
fear what we cannot control. We should 
respect death, viewing it as the ending of 
a faulty and the beginning of a fault- 
less existence, as the finale of time and 
the opening measures of the prelude to 
eternity. And when the hour decreed has 
passed, and one of the loves of our hearts 
has been transferred to another realm, 
have we not that love still only in a 
higher and more beautiful form? 

There should be some joy in the 
thought that somewhere beyond the 
clouds and stars is the soul of a friend or 
lover. We should be happier in the 
knowledge that all our ties are not mor- 
tal, even during the period of our mor- 
tality. It should add something to each 
79 



9In t^e TStwfy of t^e Iflfejs 

day's fullness to feel that to some we love, 
all we do and say is as an open book. 
When our time comes to say good-bye, 
when our own skies are streaked with the 
red and gold of the sunset hour, and we 
set sail in the night to be landed on 
brighter shores with the breaking of an- 
other dawn, it should lessen the sadness of 
parting to look forward to meeting those 
who have gone on before. We go then 
to no land of strangers. And so it seems 
to be, for there shines from out every 
dead face some sign of peace. 



80 



%$t &xt of Sifting 

ONE art there is among men which 
stands out above all others as the 
Himalayas rise above the moun- 
tains of earth. Beside it — to the eye 
which is truly the window of the soul — 
all acquisitions of talent, wealth and gen- 
ius appear as mere servants. We rejoice 
in the arts and sciences which ennoble and 
uplift us, and we house their product of 
treasure in vast walls of stone, and adorn 
their executors with medals of honor and 
the like, and sound forth their names 
throughout the nations. This is well, for 
thus do we encourage and bestir to even 
higher achievement the handservants of 
the mightiest art — the Art of Living. 
And what house is, in truth, a tribute to 
81 



3Jn tyt TBeatrt? of Qe JLttfejs 

its master if it be not well served, or what 
ship a credit to its captain if not well 
manned? 

The Art of Living — how many of the 
throng that daily sets forth to labor with 
the sun, stop to think of themselves as 
artists. If only they could know and feel 
what artists they are! — working away, 
unconsciously but everlastingly, at the 
greatest canvas ever stretched — the can- 
vas of Life! It seems strange that 
men and women should not more freely 
recognize this as the prime art, and 
yet the reason is not deep-hidden. Only 
when we come in contact with something 
new or novel or of vast dimensions do we 
thrill within. The ordinary run of 
things — the common events of yesterday 
and to-day, the flowers which blossom in 
82 



31n t^e TBeautr of t^e JLttfejs 

endless profusion and the stars which 
shine in countless hosts — these are so 
well known to us that we seldom stop to 
consider their wonder and beauty and 
their immense power. Because all this 
has been the privilege of ages past, and 
differs not greatly now from what it was 
in the days of the Prophets, or the Roman 
era, or the Protectorate, it has become 
largely a matter of habit to accept it as 
something quite incidental to the years of 
humanity. How great is such a mistake 
we can never fully appreciate until some 
day there comes to us a realization of the 
splendor and freshness of dawn, or the 
marvelous working of the human frame 
or some such example of the Creator's 
genius. Then is life lighted up in oun 
eyes I Then we see good and beauty in 
83 



gin tyz Tstauty of t^e JLilfejs 

what before seemed dull and unlovely — 
forgetting that experience changes little 
from century to century, accepting all 
that comes with the enthusiasm and frank 
gratitude of a young girl when first she 
trips out into the world of her mother's 
friends. Now is life something to stifle 
the imagination and put the sense to riot; 
a thing to conjure with ; a force unspeak- 
able; a power beyond which the human 
intelligence can conceive but one greater 
or more divine. 

Day sings to the heart a song of doing 
and pushing forward; night chants a 
melody of rest and sweet repose. Sleep 
is more loved and even more welcome 
than of yore, since it is the cordial which 
shall make more keen the senses to appre- 
ciate what is beautiful and strange, mar- 
84 



gin t^e ^Beauty of t^e Mlit» 

velous and intricate. Breathing becomes 
a pleasure, thinking a joy. To work with 
colors of heart and soul upon a canvas of 
eternity, with years for brushes and the 
whole world for a palette; to carve from 
living stone the statues of the future — ah! 
.this is some partnership with a Hand Di- 
vine. By this are we lifted from out the 
common round and carried to the com- 
panionship of higher beings. This is the 
vital art — the art with speech and sight 
and feeling. This is the secret of joy, the 
key to happiness! 

There is no lull in the painting of the 
great picture. To each is given some 
part. I may have to deal with the clouds, 
you with the trees, yon being with the 
sunny skies; but only joy can guide the 
hand that feels itself carrying out the will 

85 



3Itt fyz QBeauty of tyz Lilfejs 

of the Master. The colors of some are 
dull, of others glowing; but even this 
marks no cause for regret — since they who 
dip into tubes of gray know full well how 
much more they are adding to the bright 
colors in the foreground. There is no 
lull, I say. For each painter who lays 
down his brush with the dusk comes an- 
other with the dawn who lifts that brush 
to even better purpose, perhaps. For 
each who hands his palette back to the 
Master comes a new claimant — and the 
palette, rich with fresh colors and 'reft 
of its rough, scarred surface, becomes a 
new factor in the mosaic of the ages. 

They sing while they work away at this 

picture — these lovers of life. And as one 

voice drops out from time to time, a new 

one is lifted in its stead. The eyes that 

86 



3In fl&e TBeaut? of t^e iLiliejs 

close in this spot are opened wider in an- 
other. The hand that falters here is made 
strong and steady somewhere on beyond. 
While we work away here we see only 
that little part allotted to our skill. When 
we have done our duty, howsoever small 
it may have been, we stand where all of 
it is visible. Then we know how we 
could work with such heart and spirit, 
despite dull days and weary-seeming 
nights. Then we know what here we 
only dreamed. It is well for us to dream. 
The best parts of that unending painting 
are the dreams that live upon it in color 
and in form beyond all others. 

Beyond the mountain tops, beyond the 
stars, there is one art more high. But 
here we reach the height of life's possi- 
bilities when we realize the art of living. 
87 



Co & jface 

BEFORE me, on my desk, is a face. 
From out a narrow casement of gold 
two eyes of which I have no words 
to tell, keep watch of every word I write. 
When I look away from the jagged line 
of my pen, it is to dwell upon the curving 
beauty of two dear lips, whence come the 
sweetest notes of music that surround my 
way; a throat as soft and song- filled as 
that of the wee brown bird which sings 
me gladness from a twig outside my win- 
dow each morning; a crown of dark hue 
— in the picture — but of a golden saint- 
like glory in the living. I would the 
power were mine to tell you what it all 
means to me — for I would make you 
sharer of my deepest joy if I could. If I 
89 



gjn t^e 'Beaut? of t^e lilfeis 

could borrow from the sun the secret of 
its cheery smile, from the south wind its 
softness, from the rainbow its celestial 
beauty, from the sea its wonder and from 
the high hills their majesty, and put these 
down upon a piece of the blue sky above, 
with shooting stars for commas and plan- 
ets for periods, I might be able then to tell 
you all that face means to me. But — all 
I can say is: Before me, on my desk, is 
a facel 

No, there is something more. Before 
me, in my life, is a face. By its dear, 
steady light, always more bright to-day 
than yesterday, I am enabled to see — even 
though they be veiled in the haze of dis- 
tance — some of the things I long sought 
and prayed for, and with them, some be- 
yond my fairest dreams and hoping. As 
90 



gjn t^e 'Beaut? of ti&e iLilfejs 

I look in upon those visioned realms, all 
gilt with this great light, my heart for- 
gets the rough places along the road and 
the thorns and stones that boded me ill 
comfort once, seem all to have been swept 
from my path. All the bare trees of 
winter seem suddenly transformed into 
full and shadowy leafage, and even the 
brownest of meadows is as it were the 
early summer — green-spread and broid- 
ered thick with flowers. I see them yet 
as they are, bare and brown, but I cannot 
know them thus. For somehow, strange- 
ly, in the shining of that face is hid a 
power to change all things and make 
them new and different in my eyes. Were 
I a Moore or a Burns, I might make 
songs whose words would speak all that 
is mine in this sweet face, and let you 
91 



gjn fl&e 'Beauty of t^e Kites 

know how that calm light gladdens and 
glorifies all on which its constant beam 
is shed. But my mute lyre must still be 
mute — I have not power to make it speak. 
And all my pen will spell is: Before me, 
in life, is a face ! 

Not all — there still is something I can 
say. Before me, in my heaven, is a face* 
It is the same one, only more fair. Be- 
cause of it my heaven has left its high seat 
in the future and come down to me now 
and here. It is no longer some imagined 
realm, that sits in endless sun along the 
farther shores of the ether ocean. Long 
since the gate to its outer garden was 
opened by a dainty hand, all white and 
touched with pink — and that's how came 
the light, I ween. And in that garden 
whence the hand has led I look, with 
92 



gjtt t^e TSewty of tlje JLtlfejs 

heart aflame with prayer, on flowers I 
had never thought to more than dream 
of, and list to music that I once dreamed 
only angels heard- 

It may be God shall some day set in His 
Vast kingdom of the sky a new star and 
give me that for the face I now have and 
love and am lighted by. Sometimes I 
wonder why He has thus long been good 
to me — with all my human erring. And 
if that be His will, how can I murmur? 
One glimpse of such a light has brought 
me to heaven ; one thought would lead me 
to the inner gate. 

Before you, in your life, God grant 
some face. The light that shines through 
loving eyes is more than sun or white 
cloud's casting. The melody that floats 
from loving lips is better than the music 
93 



gin t^e 'Beauty of t^e Lilies 

of the winds among the pines. And when 
we come to inspiration, help, comfort, joy 
— ah! where's the tongue that can half 
tell the story! There are no words for 
some of the things that come into life. 
The stars and the sea tell of them some- 
what, and what they lack is made up in 
the silence of the heart. You understand, 
perhaps. If not, my prayer is that you 
may. For you are human, as I am, and 
life can only be good so long as before 
me, on my desk, in my life, and in my 
heaven, is that face! 



94 



jtetc 



LOOK on music as God's speech with 
man. I count its rythm the echoing 
of His tread through heaven's ethe- 
real halls, its harmony the shadow of 
God's justice ; its melody the sign of His 
deep love. Of all earth's tongues it is 
alone the one which is understood of 
every human soul. Clime, circumstance 
and character may vary, and yet this 
voice has everywhere a meaning to the 
heart. Age marks no change. As the 
child's face glows with joy at the twitter- 
ing of a bird, so the white-crowned cheeks 
of life's sunset side break into smiles of 
peace at the sound of a note which marks 
some unforgotten day. Through all the 
changes and viscissitudes of mortality 
95 



3In t^e TStwty of t^e Lilies 

flows the stream of music — now helping 
men to a full realization of intense joy, 
now soothing them in sorrow or comfort- 
ing them in loss. It alone seems to have 
place in this world and the next without 
need of change. No thought of a life to 
come was ever unaccompanied by a sense 
of the song of angels, or a celestial melody 
of harps. Of all that comes to us in this 
mortal state, it is the only thing wholly 
pure. 

Men and music have souis — souls that 
dwell in a kinship close to an ideal 
Motherhood. When the heart would ut- 
ter its deepest, noblest thoughts ; when the 
soul would have speech, they seek alike 
some silvern note or chord of gold. When 
love sighs, the echo is a strain of sweet 
sound, and when hope rises, the light it 
96 



9In tyz TBeaut? of t^e Hilfejs 

casts comes in the voice of song. The 
world rolls on among its fellow spheres 
through cloud and shine — men's hearts 
dance gaily or drag wearily, and ever 
comes to him who listens some song of 
home, or love or hope or death. It is the 
mantle which makes all things sweet to 
look upon. The lips forever sealed speak 
some message of ineffable sweetness 
through the deep and slow-measured 
dirging of the organ; the hands forever 
joined are closer bound together by sway- 
ing strains of bliss. When man reaches 
the outer limit of speech in words and 
signs, and can no longer express his feel- 
ings through these ancient methods, God 
sends him music, and in it can be said all 
that the being would but could not speak. 
Whether its measures fall on barren ears, 
97 



3|n t^e 'Beauty of t^e HiUejs 

or those made rich by all that the world 
and life at its full tide can give, its mean- 
ing is the same. 

It is the most universal of blessings, and 
the one least often counted among our 
blessings, I think. So general is its part 
in life and so seldom lacking, that we fall 
into the unlovely habit of taking it more 
or less for granted. What if we stopped 
and breathed a word of prayer in thanks- 
giving for every note of music that came 
to our ears! Life would be little less 
than one long prayer, would it not? 

Some army, worn with long and weary 
marching and beset by hunger and sleep- 
lessness, trial and danger — unfit apparent- 
ly for aught but rest and nursing, is fired 
into a mass of indomitable power at the 
sound of a battle hymn, rough-played, or 
98 



gjn t^e 'Beaut? of ti&e Hflfejs 

the husky call of the drums aft. Some 
solitary wanderer, without a place to call 
home or a person to call friend, more 
ready for death than for another day, has 
borne to his ears a simple melody of times 
remote, and all his quickened being 
speaks of hope renewed and courage 
raised again. The restless child is calmed 
to sleep by a lullaby from loving lips ; the 
care-worn man, his head heavy with the 
day's doings, is soothed into peace by the 
strains of a voice soft-strung in pearls of 
song familiar. The laborer hums him 
airs of native land and half forgets he 
labors ; the tubwoman plys her arms to the 
rhythm of folk song, and is once more a 
girl, full of the joy of life. The voice of 
love must be a song; the voice of faith a 
hymn; the voice of thanksgiving a Te 

99 



gin ti&e TBeauty of t^e Jtttteg 

Deum. Literature, painting and all the 
kindred arts can only hope for place in 
lives made ready for them; music is a 
welcome guest in every home of human 
soul. 

This world revolves in one unending 
melody of voice and string and reed and 
brass and woodwind. There is never a 
moment, night or day, when somewhere 
in earth's stretch of land and sea, hearts 
glad and souls sad are not voicing them- 
selves in music. It is the vast chorus of 
the universe — the echo of that burst of 
love from those first morning stars that 
blinked at Eden's groves; of that glad 
melody of angels' making when Bethle- 
hem became the cradle of human love. 
O let us greaten that chorus! With lives 
more fitly scored to all that dwells in 

IOO 



91n t^e %tmxty of fi&e nates 

music's realm; with hearts more bent 
upon the gladdening of these fields ter- 
restrial, wherein we wander now; with 
souls more in tune with the Infinite Soul, 
let us never hesitate to add to this undy- 
ing song, our little measure of voice. We 
can go singing through life or sighing. 
The sighing can make no one of us hap- 
pier or better; the singing can. Let us 
then go singing, that while here we may 
the better swell the harmony of mortal- 
ity, and when There we may be the better 
prepared for the endless song of life im- 
mortal. 



IOI 



"Crossing tfje 3Sar" 



Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar 

When I put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell 

When I embark. 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have cross' d the bar. 



SOME poems are like souls. Once 
known, they are forever ours. The 
changes of time, the varyings of 
clime and circumstance, cannot rob us of 
their wondrous beauty or their comfort. 
103 



gin t^e OBeaut? of t^e JLflfejs 

We may not be able to recall word for 
word the stanzas, just as we are not al- 
ways able to remember when or where 
we chanced upon a certain soul, yet the 
scene is set in our hearts, and like the 
memories called up by yellowed letters, 
folded and put away, or the faint scent of 
faded rose leaves, we have in them the 
personality of the writer or the odor of 
the full blown flower. Some poems have 
souls, and this is one of them. 

It almost seems to me when I go over 
these sweet stanzas in my mind, as if the 
soul which guided the pen that made 
these marks saw afar the confines of the 
Eternal Harbor, and had visual access to 
more than is often granted man to see. It 
is a great thought, the peace of the ships 
whose sails are furled forever. Out of 
104 



3In tyt 'Beauty of t^e Ifliejs 

the dust of the day's desires, like some 
soft-whispered vesper benediction, it ap- 
pears as a messenger of some new joy. 
For over and above the lesser fears of our 
lives stands ever the menacing spectre of 
the fear of death; the ever present ghost 
of that which you and I must meet some 
day. So like a gentle hand laid in ours 
in a moment of need, come the words of 
the poet, himself standing on the last 
shore of this little day and patiently wait- 
ing the coming of the ship that never re- 
turns, which was to bear him Home. 

"Turns again home." 

Through all the strife and care of daily 
living, how these words lift us up to bet- 
ter things! How gladly at the close of 
each twelve hours of labor and thought 
and responsibility, the tired mortal takes 
105 



gjn t^e 'Beauty of t^e lilfeg 

up the way that will lead him to his own ! 
His heart blooms anew with the thought 
of a little peace and a little surcease from 
the day's work. I think the hurrying 
crowds that fill the city streets at night- 
fall bear one of the best of messages to the 
eyes and ears of man. Despite the day's 
task and the impress it has left on faces 
and the lightness it has lifted from steps, 
the thought of the evening, even though 
it be not one of complete rest, is so good 
as to fill the very air with a cheerful spirit. 
They are going to their own, however 
humble that be, and though their desti- 
nations vary almost as the sands on the 
seashore, the look in their eyes and the 
feeling in their hearts are one. To each 
his own is best, and to each the coming 
again to his own has a meaning almost 
106 



3jn t^e ^Beauty of tlje JLttteis 

great enough to cover up all with which 
the day has been fraught. 

It should be thus at the close of life's 
day. As we turn from the work of this 
world which has tired us and given us 
anxious moments and long hours of 
wearing responsibility — for life has all 
of these, and he who would live it in its 
fullness must not look for less — we should 
face the home-going with that same glad 
step and that same cheerful look in the 
eyes. For is not that place whither we 
are bound the greatest of homes? Oh! 
let us be wise as the poet is. The tide 
which comes in must go out that it may 
return again. The years lent us here are 
not to be handed back to the Maker in 
coin or in kind. The cargo which the 
Pilot looks for from his light-house in 
107 



gin fl&e ^Beauty of t^e Lilies 

the sky is just a soul. He seeks a soul 
refreshed by contact with the best 
things He has planted here below — made 
to broaden as the blue sky broadens and 
to deepen as does the green sea. He does 
not ask achievement or rank or power of 
human mold. Above all these things He 
is possessed of a creative genius which 
turns them into matters of no moment 
whatever. The ship which goes back to 
Him after its little stay on these shores 
of time must be cleared of its material 
cargo. As its white sails sway into the 
ether of eternity, as its prow ploughs a 
way through the myriads of stars, all that 
He seeks is the light at the helm — the 
soul. As the tide returns with its burden 
to the shores whence it came, He only 
looks to see if what He lent has been well 
108 



9In t^e ^Beauty of tyt Hilfejs 

used. His Heaven hatH ever need of 
stars, and they who here shine in truth 
and love and goodness are they who there 
shall be the great lights of the stormless 
harbor. 



109 



gmfitttott 

AMBITION is the tonic of the gods 
if rightly used; the poison of the 
devils if wrongly taken. By it 
have come the best things we have; 
through it our greatest losses have been 
suffered. It is the nectar which invig- 
orates to a certain draught, and when that 
draught is taken, it becomes the drink 
which turns men into demons and lowers 
the purpose of their lives and leaves the 
world a victim to their greed. It is the 
road which leads to fame and honor if we 
but turn aright where it forks, but if 
at the sign-post we choose the path that 
wrongly leads, it is but a marshy, dang- 
erous descent to death. Of life and what 
is possible to life, it is the salt, and duly 
in 



g|u t^e TBeautt of t^e lilies 

sprinkled it well flavors all, but stir in 
just one pinch too much, and it becomes 
a bitterness that plagues our food and us. 
No tool the hand can wield, no power of 
brain, no might of mind, no towering 
height of thought can be well used with- 
out ambition's aid; yet if we force the 
hand, the mind, the soul, and overwhip 
them with ambition's lash, the human 
steeds are lost to our control and, pushing 
madly, blindly through the world, they 
wreck themselves and what they draw 
upon the crags of time. Look through 
the years and see how many men whose 
whole beings seemed to pulse with great 
desires, who, seeming to feel the needs of 
men, sought to make themselves the ser- 
vants of these lacks and yet who over- 
reached the mark by putting themselves 

112 



9In tyt TStauty of t^e Lflfejs 

before the end that they would gain. And 
look again — see, too, how many men rich 
in accomplishments that breed true suc- 
cess have found in this determination to 
overcome all, the pathway to the final at- 
tainment of their goals. Without ambi- 
tion man is only clay, but with too much 
man is a thing of stone. 

The chiefest point about ambition is 
that which we aim at. The end does not 
of necessity justify the means, but in every 
instance the means should be justified by 
the end. Therefore, to him who entering 
life, would triumph in some cause which 
from within he feels to be of worth to 
men and help to the future, chooses the 
righteous end and holds that alone in 
view, never allowing personal gain or 
position to over influence his thoughts 
"3 



%xi t^e ^Beauty of t^e iflfejs 

and deeds, ambition stands arrayed in her 
best garb and is the servant of his every 
mood, and serves him nobler than can 
any other guide save faith. But it is 
most difficult in this world, surrounded 
as we are by luxuries which constantly 
lure us on, and almost bred to desires of 
evil sort arrayed in silk, to well divine 
the limits of ambition. As a rule, when 
we speak of one as being ambitious the 
thought inferred is wealth. It should not 
be so. Ambition of the finer sort is a 
burning to do and to help, not to gain; 
and to have ambition of the nobler mold 
is to be something, and that something 
Good I Greatness follows as surely in 
this course as water flows down a hillside. 
The men whose names resound with 
honor, even though centuries separate 
114 



gin ti&e TBtwty of t^e JLfltejs 

our times from theirs, are those who 
wrought with high purpose and unceas- 
ing energy for things of good. 

They are the Great who served the Good, 
Who saw in life some nobler part 
Than striving after things of gain 
Which gathered here must be here left 
At Death's inevitable call. 
They are the Great who, looking forth, 
See somewhere in the realms beyond 
This cavalcade of sense and sight, 
The ends that God has wisely planned, 
And strive to add some human note 
To this divinest symphony. 

The spirit that takes up this task, for- 
getting self and all that breeds self com- 
fort and self satisfaction here, and 
marches on through stir and strife, seeing 
naught but the light and cleaving to that 
light as one cleaves when a child to a 
Mother's breast, with high purpose and 
thoughts aflame with great desires — that 
"5 



fn t^e TBeaut? of t^e iLttfejs 

spirit stands in this or any age the statue 
of immortal man. Life is at best a dance 
of deeds, wherein some choice to us is 
given of whom we dance with and of 
where, and he who best keeps time to 
those immortal melodies of yore ; he who 
best heeds the word of God, the needs of 
man, is he would molds ambition's power 
into a form whose feet touch earth ; whose 
hands are held aloft to Heaven, 



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